


mourning (screaming)

by scorpiusismypatronus



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Guess I’ll Die???, I need a coping mechanism, I started this over 2 weeks ago oops, M/M, Pining, SPD, Sensory Processing Disorder, Trans Rich, Unrequited Love, and I'm back off my new-ass meds cause they made me anxious, anyway, gay dustin kropp, literally I nvr see fics that are /actually/ unrequited love so..here, one sided dustin/rich, so um, take it, take this fic, unrequited love for a friend sucks ass okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiusismypatronus/pseuds/scorpiusismypatronus
Summary: in which Dustin loves Rich, but Rich doesn't love Dustin





	mourning (screaming)

**Author's Note:**

> wow i’m still projecting,, What A Surprise
> 
> Also yes that one line was a hamilton reference I was watching it as I wrote

 

Dustin sighed, staring down at his phone's embarrassing search history and then at Rich Goranaki.

Back to the phone, Dustin. Pining never helped anyone.

He deleted his history ("how to fall out of love," "how to stop loving someone," "getting over unrequited love," "mlm moodboards," "how to get someone to fall in love with me," "how to stop being in love") and sighed.

The music at the party was loud and the insecurity of the teenagers there was louder. It was a sea of curled hair and red solo cups and glitter. Dustin Kropp was drowning.

Rich was uncharacteristically sober and somehow still acting like the drunkest guy at the party, running around asking everyone for Mountain Dew Red. He'd already asked Dustin, who had apologized and offered to help him look, but Rich just said, "it's fine, man," and ran off, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jenna Rolan came up to him as he was lost in thought, tapping him on the shoulder. "Hey, Dust, you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dustin said. "I've had a bit of beer, believe it or not." This was mostly a lie. He'd only had one cup to appease Jeremy Heere, who had made it his personal task to make sure everyone at the party was too drunk to function.

"Yeah, understandable. Have you seen Christine? Last I heard she was crying."

"I dunno, don't think so. Good luck finding her," he shrugged.

He could feel the panic rising in him. He had to get out. It was loud and hot and everything was too much and he needed to escape.

His sensory issues weren't usually this bad but every brush of his costume against his skin felt like he was having it ripped off and the room was so hot from everyone moving and the music was giving him a huge migraine and he needed to get out and escape and be in the quiet for just a moment.

He hurried down the hall of Jake’s house/mansion (more of a mansion than a house) and knocked on the bathroom door, looking for an escape.

“I’ll be out soon,” called the person in the room. 

Dustin sighed, accepting that he wouldn't get out of this party without crying in public if this went on for much longer. To him, even the slightest noise was almost unbearable. It felt like sandpaper scraping against his brain. He needed _out_.

Of course, there was Rich. Standing in front of him with the light in the other room making him look like some kind of angel or Greek god or hero.

“Hey. You okay?” He asked. He was kind of jittery, kept looking over his shoulder — it concerned Dustin but he didn’t know how to bring it up. Rich crouched down to make eye contact with Dustin.

“I’m a little — it’s — it’s so loud and I — fuck, sorry.” He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have a meltdown in front of his long-time crush, the amazing, insanely cool Rich Goranski.

“No, it’s okay,” said Rich. “Is it — do you have a sensory problem, or is it just too loud in general?” The way he said “sensory” sounded more like “thenthory” and Dustin thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever heard.

“It’s a sensory thing. I have SPD,” Dustin explained, feeling like curling into himself and dying.

“Okay. It’s okay, calm down, please don’t hyperventilate, I’ll feel like shit… No, I have — not many people know this, but I have an anxiety disorder, and sometimes everything’s too loud and big and bright for me to cope, so I mean, I kinda know what you’re saying?”

“Oh, thank god, I thought you were gonna make fun of me,” said Dustin.

“No, of course I wouldn’t—“ Rich broke off whatever he was going to say. "Is there anything that helps you when you’re overloaded?” He turned to glance over his shoulder (Dustin looked too — there was nothing there) and then back to Dustin.

“It’s gonna sound stupid,” Dustin warned.

“No, it’s okay, man.”

“Well, besides being someplace quiet, usually — there’s a certain type of blanket that works really well? To help me? I know that’s stupid.”

“It’s not, I promise. I know how I could — there’s a — follow me.” Rich stood up and held a hand out to him, and he took it, marveling at the fact that he’d had Rich's hand in his, even if it was only for a couple seconds.

He followed Rich up the stairs, wondering vaguely how Rich knew his way around so well before remembering that he and Jake were best friends (if not boyfriends). The music steadily grew quieter and Dustin could breathe again for the first time in a while. Rich shoved open a large wooden door and gestured to what must have been a type of sitting room.

“There’s like eight different blankets here,” Rich said, shrugging, “and no one really comes in here; Jake’s got them thinking it’s a storage closet, so… yeah.”

“Thanks, man," Dustin said. “And if I hear word of where you could get some Mountain Dew Red, I’ll tell you.”

“Thanks, dude,” Rich smiled, finger-gunning at him and then glancing over his shoulder. “I gotta go bug Jake — haven’t seen him much today — feel free to do whatever, Jake won’t care, and come find me if you need anything, all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Dustin, putting on a fake smile.

It was always Jake. Always Jake that Rich cared about, that he talked about. Everything was about _Jake_. No one cared about Dustin, least of all Rich, and why would he?

“Bye, man,” Rich smiled at him. Dustin kept his façade on firm until Rich left, and then he was drowning in blankets on the couch, wishing the pillows would swallow him whole. He knew exactly why Rich wasn’t interested in him — why no one was interested in him. He wasn’t worthy of love. It was the only logical conclusion, after all: if he was worthy of love, he'd have a boyfriend by now.

There was only one thing to do now.

He needed to get over Rich.

…He couldn’t get over Rich. What if there was a chance? What if Rich was hiding feelings from him deep under what he felt for Jake?

He could have a chance. He wasn’t throwing away his shot.

There was no chance.

No chance with anyone.

No chance for anything.

He wouldn’t ever amount to anything.

At that moment, all Dustin Kropp wanted was to disappear.

He shoved his face into the pillows, trying not to cry — he needed to do anything other than that — he wasn’t going to cry because of Rich Goranski in a dark hidden room belonging to Jake Dillinger. That wasn’t going to happen.

Dustin raised a fist to his eye, wiping away tears that definitely weren’t there. His breath shook and his eyes burnt, but he wasn’t going to cry, not when the door was still cracked, not while anyone could see, not while he wasn’t at his own home. 

And yet. His shoulders shook and finally he let the tears spill, falling over his cheeks as he sobbed quietly.

He wasn’t good enough and he’d never be good enough and why would anyone think he was good enough?

How did he even have friends? Who would want to be around the mess that made up Dustin Kropp?

He began to hyperventilate, not able to take in deep breaths, his chest aching; curling into himself, heart racing, throat blocked, he couldn’t breathe, and if he managed to get air in, it was so little that he began to panic, which did not help his breathing, but made it worse; his heart now pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips, his chest to tight to breathe, eyes blurry, head screaming and screaming and _screaming_ that he was worthless.

No one would ever love him. At this point he knew the truth. Even if he didn’t like it.

He buried himself deeper into the blankets, focusing on the feeling of them and steadying his breath.

After ten minutes he’d managed to calm down enough to think. 

If he wanted to leave the party (and any chance of talking to Rich again) he’d have to sneak out the side door. 

He sighed and pulled himself off the couch, wrapping his plaid button-down around his shoulders, trying to soothe himself with the sensation, but the idea didn’t turn out the way he wanted because the seam dug into his shoulder.

Dustin rubbed his shoulder and slipped out the cracked door. The first thing he heard was the yelling, which of course there was — it was a teenage party. Of course there was yelling.

But this was different… this was... this was fear.

He hurried down the stairs. Jake Dillinger was standing at the bottom, and upon seeing Dustin, yelled, “There’s a fire! Get out!”

Dustin sprinted for the door and didn’t stop running once he reached the door. He kept running and running and running and he didn’t stop until he reached his house, and once he did, he collapsed on the porch, coughing, choking on a lack of oxygen and his love for Richard Goranski.

The night was quiet but for the sirens in the far distance, but inside his mind all he could hear was the screaming.


End file.
